The mail boat is a lifeline for the scattered islands of the
Bahamas. David Butwin hops on board.

Another heart-stopping sunset was about to engulf the little
port of George Town, far down in the Bahamas. I had a choice. I
could drift through a last evening at my waterfront inn - no
hardship that - and fly home to the US the next morning up through
Nassau. Or I could hop the weekly mail boat, a sputtering tub that
was taking on its last cargo down at the docks.

The overnight run to Nassau would be 12 to 14 hours, with a
couple of rough passages and who knew what other distractions.
People were rushing past the inn towards the pier, dragging bundles
and suitcases. "Better hurry if you want to go," the desk clerk
said. "The boat's leaving in 20 minutes."

I rushed to my room, threw my bag together, checked out of the
inn and made a run for it (is there any other way to catch a mail
boat?). Minutes later, the 42-metre Grand Master was heaving away
from the wharf. As we slipped out of George Town and started up the
east coast of Great Exuma Island in the lemony twilight, I could
see people having cocktails on the terrace of the inn. There was
cargo stacked everywhere on the deck - drums of kerosene to be
dropped that night at Staniel Cay, crates of squirming land crabs,
satchels and boxes, lengths of bamboo and sugar cane, party dresses
in plastic bags, children's strollers, bags of mail. There were 20
passengers, and all but one were Bahamians. For $US40 (about $52) I
had a bunk in a shared cabin.

Mail boats are a vital lifeline in the Bahamas, bearing people,
mail and cargo between the capital city, Nassau, and the far
corners of a chain that stretches 1000 diagonal kilometres and
covers 260,000 square kilometres. If Bahamians don't exactly set
their clocks by the arriving boats (weather and unloading snags can
alter the schedule) they depend on them for life's necessities, for
news and gossip. An arriving mail boat is a welcome commotion on a
somnolent day.

To ride one of these worthies for five, six or a dozen hours is
to see a hidden side of island life, and go back to a bygone way of
travel.

As we plunged through green waters, I stood on deck and talked
with a woman named Ellen Sears. She was taking the mail boat
between George Town and Nassau because she didn't like to fly, but
she didn't like rough sailing either. I think we were both
apprehensive about the two choppy cuts (channels) that lay ahead.
"The wind is behind us and that will help," she said in a soothing
voice.

Gary Sweeting, standing barefoot and shirtless at the rail, had
the air of a college kid on semester break. But he was a business
traveller, returning to Nassau after treating two houses on Great
Exuma for termites. "There's only one rough spot," he said, "and
that lasts just 30 or 45 minutes."

Sweeting, who works for his father's extermination company and
rides the mail boats to jobs all over the islands, rated his
favourite two runs for me: first, the Spanish Rose from Nassau to
Spanish Wells, five hours, 7am on Thursday; second, the Lady
Francis to Rum Cay near Salvador, 6pm on Thursday.

The deck began to rock. I went below and sat in the breezeway -
two long, facing benches that stretch from one open side to the
other. There were high-rolling, deep-blue waves everywhere I
looked. Ellen Sears sat down quickly beside me. We were going
through the George Town Cut. Then as the rocking turned to an easy
sway, I went up on deck and sat down on a white bench to watch the
sunset.

"I don't know if you like Bahamian food ..." It was a crewman,
holding a plate covered with aluminum foil, and a can of soft
drink. Like it? I scraped up every last trace of the grilled pork
chops, grits and peas and coleslaw while downing the peppery ginger
ale. As I watched the cays and islands slide by in the dusk, I felt
a blend of excitement and contentment. I raised the can in a toast,
thanking the heavens I had thrown my lot to the Grand Master.

I went below. In the galley, three men and a boy were playing
whist at a long table. In the breezeway, people were sleeping on
the benches. I went up to my cabin and lay on my bunk, but I was
too wired to sleep.

About midnight I saw lights and felt the engine tremble and
slow. I went out on deck, barefoot. The sea glowed under a
three-quarter moon. We were approaching Staniel Cay, a remote port
in the north Exumas, to drop off the four drums of kerosene, used
to power the island's generators. An officer pointed to a spot in
the floodlit harbour entrance, an underwater passage known as
Thunderball, which is a popular dive site and the inspiration for
the James Bond tale of the same name. Staniel Cay is also a
favourite stop-off for yachties.

As we pulled up to the dock adults and children emerged from
their benches and cabins and pressed close to the railing. Under a
spotlight, a groaning crane arched over the foredeck, snatched up
two drums at a time and lowered them onto the dock, where a
muscular young man in tank top and jeans wrestled them from the
winch. It was a Winslow Homer painting come to life. I looked down
to see crab claws reaching and probing from the slats of two wooden
crates.

The Grand Master pulled away and the floodlights went out. But
the moon was so bright you could see white beaches slipping by.
Most of the children were awake now and enjoying the action. About
1am I retired to my cabin. "The overhead light works when you tap
it," said my cabin mate, the boat's purser. The room, about four
metres square, was warm and stuffy, on the wrong side of the boat
to catch the night breeze. He put a small electric fan on the floor
and I slept tolerably well.

About 7am I awoke and looked out to see a splendid rainbow. It
was stretched high above the bridge that connects Nassau and
Paradise Island. We were nearing Potters Cay, site of Nassau's busy
commercial docks and a roiling daily market.

I climbed off the Grand Master onto a clattering wharf. Mail
boats from all over the islands were tied up and disgorging
passengers and cargo. Land crabs were escaping from gunny sacks
that lay open on the docks, scuttling this way and that.

Over the din, I heard a voice directed. It was Ellen Sears. I
hadn't seen her since we'd talked in the breezeway the night
before. We laughed about the trip, agreeing that the cuts had not
been so rough after all, and then she said goodbye, leaving me in a
swarm of humanity and scuttling crabs.

I was standing beside the mail boat Captain Moxey. It had just
come in from South Andros on a seven-hour overnight run. People
were buying crabs on the spot and transferring them to their own
sacks. Andros is a key hunting ground for land crabs.

Nearby a smaller boat, the blue Woodpecker II, had unloaded
piles of pink conch shells. Somewhere on the quay, a mail boat
would soon leave for some far corner of the Bahamas, and I wanted
to be on it.

MORE INFORMATION

More than two dozen mail boats service the Bahamas, calling in
at 50-odd ports and cays. Sailing time ranges from five to 17
hours. All boats carry passengers - some are fitted with cabins,
some not. The George Town-Nassau trip costs $US35 or $US40 with a
bunk. For information and a somewhat sketchy mail boat schedule, go
to http://www.geographia.com (Click on "The Bahamas", "Access" and
"Travelling between islands").

TRAVEL SPECIALS

1140284098153-smh.com.auhttp://www.smh.com.au/news/caribbean/midnight-run/2006/02/22/1140284098153.htmlsmh.com.auSydney Morning Herald2006-02-27Midnight runDavid ButwinThe mail boat is a lifeline for the scattered islands of the
Bahamas. David Butwin hops on board.TravelWDestCaribbeanhttp://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2006/02/27/s_bahamas_wideweb__430x290,0.jpg

Essential service ... the mail boats take cargo, people and gossip
to the far corners of the Bahamas.

430290http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2006/02/27/60_bahamas.jpg

Essential service ... the mail boats take cargo, people and gossip
to the far corners of the Bahamas.